He's Got the Whole World in his Hands
by The Cheshire Cheese
Summary: Seymour has been scorned, and now everyone's going to pay. Because his name isn't actually Seymour; it's Garland. Garland Greene. (Crack-fic cross-over, to entertain people who hated "Ghost World" as much as I did.)


**A/N: I watched "Ghost World" after basically hearing that every Steve Buscemi fan had to see it. Well I saw it, and I hated it. I hated it so much, I wrote this little crack-fic. Ties in with "Con Air." **

**WARNING: This will probably only be amusing if you hate "Ghost World" as much as I do, or if you're really, really drunk.**

* * *

><p>Seymour left his therapist with his new date, an 82-year-old woman named Brunhilda. His night with Enid had made Seymour realize that age was meaningless, and that he had to take what he could get. Which wasn't much. Given all the issues he'd had all his life, and all of the dark secrets his "lonely eyes" housed, it was no surprise that he could never hold onto a normal relationship.<p>

"Seymour," his date croaked, "Is everything alright?"

Seymour poked at his lamb chop. They were in his apartment, eating dinner.

"No Brunhilda, everything's not alright. Look at me, I'm forty-three-years old, I'm dating a woman old enough to be my, my great-grandmother, because I'm on a rebound after bedding a seventeen-year-old, legally underage girl, which could put be back in prison for the rest of my life!"

"Back in prison?" Brunhilda asked with mild curiosity, as she dissected her lamb chop.

Realizing his mistake, Seymour slackened. "Awe shit..."

"Language, Seymour!" his date scolded.

Ignoring her, Seymour sighed. "I'm sick of this. I'm so sick of trying to fit in, trying to run from my past, hide who I am, pretend I'm normal."

"Seymour," Brunhilda asked patiently. "Is there something on your mind?"

For the first time in decades, Seymour revealed his darkest secret. "My name isn't Seymour."

"Oh?"

"No."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's Garland," he said. "Garland Greene."

He waited for her reaction. For several moments, none came. Then, she looked at him inquisitively.

"Garland Greene...I've heard that name before. Is that some kind of seasoning?"

Flatly, he replied, "Garland Greene was a serial killer. He murdered over thirty people all along the Eastern Seaboard. He liked to mutilate their bodies, and keep different parts as trophies. He once drove through three states wearing a teenage girl's head as a hat. When they finally caught him, he needed so many restraints, he looked like a fucking cocoon. Either that, or the cheapest Hannibal ripoff that ever existed. No one knows what became of him after he escaped. But I do. He went to Las Vegas, made a fortune gambling. Reinvented himself as a harmless dork named Seymour, and spent the rest of his life failing to get a date, and fighting feebly to control his lust for blood."

Brunhilda blinked behind her glasses. "Ooooh yes, that does sound familiar. I think I remember reading about that gentleman in the newspapers."

Seymour/Garland wrinkled his nose at the old woman's obliviousness. "Jeeezus!"

"You know Seymour-"

"Garland!"

"Garland, whenever I'm feeling upset, I turn to my favorite hobby. I take my two guinea pigs, Hydra and Boris, and I dress them up in little costumes, and I take my camera, and I do my own little photo shoots, like they're furry models!"

Never, in a million years, did Garland Greene think he'd be the one getting weirded out tonight.

"I've had them do 'Star Wars,' with the little hair-rolls; Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in 'Casablanca;' Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty; Dr. Evil and Austin Powers..."

"Brunhilda I don't mean to be rude, but I don't think dressing hamsters in drag is gonna help subdue this boiling rage."

"But that's just my point Garland. You should try and remember whatever activity used to make you feel better, and pick it back up again."

Garland gave it some thought. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted...it's fun, it's such a release from reality. The rush, the excitement, the magic...but I don't wanna go to jail again."

"You sound like my grand-boy when he came back from the Who concert. I always told him, a little bit of illegal recreation now and again won't kill you, as long as you don't over-do it."

Garland nodded slowly. This old woman possessed great wisdom. Hell, it wasn't like he was going to go back to butchering people on a daily basis. This would just be a one-time thing. Or, you know, a once-in-a-very-long-while thing.

Garland thanked Brunhilda for the dinner and the advice, and sent her home, before she could try getting any friendlier. With her gone, he strode to the record room, the room that was "off limits" to most visitors. He'd let Enid in there, but Enid hadn't seen everything. Had she gone through the entire room, she might have peeked inside the empty stereo-speaker. And there, she would have found the chainsaw.

* * *

><p>"Seriously," Enid lamented, "It was totally lame."<p>

She was in the convenience store, with Becky, and Josh. The guy with the nun-chucks was outside, doing his usual thing. The three teenagers carried on their conversation as usual, trying to out-do one another in profanities and bad acting.

"So wait," Josh said. "The bus that never comes actually came, and you got on it?"

"No dipshit, I was just saying, I thought it came, but it turned out it was just a freaky fever-dream because I was stoned or something."

"Oookay," Becky said. "But how's that fit into you fucking a man old enough to be your dad? Which I'm pretty sure makes him a pedophile."

Enid gave her a look. "Come on. I came onto him. You know what a stalker I am Becky. Plus, the guys' obviously got some developmental issues, so it's likely he wouldn't even put together the fact that my age made it really creepy."

Josh pondered. "So...what you're saying is...that you took advantage of an obviously mentally disabled man? In such a way that he might wind up in prison?"

Enid stared at Josh. Then, something caught her eye. "Hey, Seymour!"

Indeed, Enid's cradle-robbing lover was standing outside the glass door of the store, hiding something behind his back. He was wearing a grin that redefined creepy, and Enid found that sexy. DEAD sexy.

"He looks even creepier than usual," Becky mused.

"I know," Enid swooned.

As the middle-aged dork stepped into the store, Enid asked eagerly, "What's behind your back Seymour? Flowers for me?"

He revealed the object, which was a chain saw. Flatly he replied, "It's Garland."

* * *

><p>Brunhilda had been right. Garland felt better, MUCH better. It felt so good to bathe in the blood of young people once again. His nerdy clothes now bore medallions of dried blood. Fun as it was, Garland had always struggled with carving out his own niche in the serial killer world. It seemed everyone else had their own schtick. Hannibal ate people; Charles Lee Ray loved voodoo, and put his soul in a Cabbage Patch doll; Hans Beckert lured kids with creepy clown balloons; Buffaloo Bill made suits out of women; etc, etc, and so on and so forth. What was Garland Greene's thing? What made Garland unique?<p>

Really, there was only one thing anyone really talked about when the subject of Garland Greene came up, one that that people remembered about him. Wearing a girl's head as a hat wasn't really the most creative or impressive trademark a serial killer could come up with, but it was better than nothing. Enid's head made a _fantastic_ hat. It was so weirdly round and bulbous, it was almost like wearing a pumpkin. It made Garland feel like the Headless Horseman. As he drove home with Enid's dismembered noggin balanced on his own, Garland saying merrily to himself, "_He's got the whooole wooorld, in his haaaands...!_"


End file.
